“But… ” “Don’t worry so much, Juli,” she said. “We do this every year, and it’s always one of the best projects at the fair.”

I said, “But…,” but she was gone. Off to put an end to some other student’s battle with indecision.

That night I was more worried than ever. I’d read the chapter on incubation at least four times and was still confused about where to start.

I didn’t happen to have an old aquarium lying around! We didn’t happen to have an incubation thermometer! Would a deep-fry model work?

I was supposed to control humidity, too, or horrible things would happen to the chick.

Too dry and the chick couldn’t peck out; too wet and it would die of mushy chick disease. Mushy chick disease?!

My mother, being the sensible person that she is, told me to tell Mrs. Brubeck that I simply wouldn’t be hatching a chick.

My father, however, understood that you can’t refuse to do your teacher’s assignment, and he promised to help.

“An incubator’s not difficult to build. We’ll make one after dinner.”

How my father knows exactly where things are in our garage is one of the wonders of the universe.

How he knew about incubators, however, was revealed to me while he was drilling a one-inch hole in an old scrap of Plexiglas.